


Coming Out of My Cage

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Homophobia, M/M, References to real people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:32:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5083222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected phone call from Kent Parson at five AM doesn't turn into the disaster Jack would've expected. He's not going to thank him, though. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Out of My Cage

**Author's Note:**

> this is absolutely a poorly veiled platform for me to vent about how upset i was about some of the coverage of gus kenworthy's coming out announcement. he's gotten so much awesome support but some people are just bad at being humans. not going to link for obv. reasons.  
> the thought process went something like:  
> -gus i didn't know who you were until just now, but we're bros now. queer bros. CONGRATS BRO!  
> -yo ok but i actually cannot believe this is an issue?  
> -but WHAT ARE THE RAMIFICATIONS FOR JACK ZIMMERMANN, QUEER NHL PLAYER?
> 
> WARNINGS ETC.  
> i don't consider this rpf; gus kenworthy isn't a character, and nothing i wrote /about/ him is my own creation except that he would theoretically know kent parson. however, there is some talking about him (it's a reactionary piece, so that's kind of a given?) and if rpf squicks you, proceed with caution maybe.
> 
> i like kent. i understand why a huge portion of the fandom doesn't, and i would never presume to tell anyone how they feel about a character is wrong, but if you don't like pro-kent content this is probably not going to be fun for you.
> 
> there's some sketchy homophobic language including one incidence of the f slur, but no one who isn't queer says anything (no one who isn't queer is actually in the fic at all AKA my ideal literature)
> 
> FINALLY this isn't betaed, but my terrible attempts at québécois slang were reviewed and edited by [dazeli.](http://dazeli.tumblr.com/) translations available via hovertext for convenience and also at the end for mobile users. the final translations weren't double checked so i'm 100% sure that if there is a mistake it's my fault, but we're going to blame kent parson instead.

“Yo, Zimms.”

“Fuck off, Parse.”

“You alone right now?”

“It’s five in the morning; of course I’m alone.”

The line goes quiet and Jack gets a few more seconds of sprinting in before he switches the elliptical to the cool down setting.

“The shit? It’s eight on the east coast right now.”

“We’re playing that Canucks this weekend, you idiot.”

Jack doesn’t bother asking what Kent’s doing awake at six o’clock. He knows the Aces’ schedule nearly as well as the Falconers’, and even though it’s an off day for them, it’s just as likely Kent hasn’t gone to bed yet. Jack’s always felt this jealousy creep under his skin and slash him where it wouldn’t show.

That he’d had to propel himself with irresponsible quantities of prescriptions just to keep up with things Kent took for granted and still be able to play the next day was another of his failures.

Time and maturity sanded down a lot of the rougher edges, but every once in a while he feels a twinge.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I woke you up anyway. You’re probably halfway done your game day workout.”

His familiarity is grating. Parse is irreverent, and he’s always been a friendly pusher—a dick to the people he loves the most—and that’s the problem exactly. Jack can’t handle how nonchalantly he’s acting like he still cares after everything they’ve gone through.

“I’m cooling down now,” Jack concedes reluctantly.

Kent snorts, “And getting half hard thinking about your PB and J?”

“Bye, Parse.”

He hangs up and has to hum to himself to get his RPM back down in his target range.

“Christ, you’re an asshole sometimes.” Parse calls back, of course.

Jack really doesn’t have the stamina to have this conversation and run at the same time, and he only has a little over two minutes left on the clock, so he steps off the pedals and resolves to jog back to his room from the hotel gym.

“Why did you call?”

“Look, I’m alone, too. Okay?”

Instead of the plush, carpeted floor of the hotel hall, Jack’s suddenly in the overcrowded Haus den during Epikegster. Déjà vu renders his vision black for a few moments and all he can feel is the sudden chill up his spine that had wracked him the second he’d recognized Parse’s voice back then.

His voice shakes, “I don’t know what you think—“

“Calm down, I’m not calling to have fucked up phone sex. But some shit’s going down and I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

“What?”

“Gus Kenworthy came out like ten minutes ago in a big way. We’re talking ESPN cover; sit down interview. _Serious_ shit.”

Before he can totally help himself, the moment he unlocks his door, Jack boots up his laptop and logs into the twitter Bitty’d set up for him when the Falconers’ PR rep had recommended he develop a social media presence. He doesn’t follow anyone except his teammates with accounts and Bittle, but right there on the top of his feed is a picture of one of the best winter sports athletes in the world confirming he’s gay to the whole world.

“I think I preferred it when I thought you were hitting on me,” Jack mutters, taking in the cover image and the accompanying headline.

_Is being the best in the world enough to be accepted?_

“I tried to call him and congratulate him, but I guess he’s kind of busy. Shot him a tweet instead.”

“Are you and he—“

“Fucking rich coming from you, but nah.” Kent laughs and Jack rolls his shoulders and tries to justify to himself that it was a reasonable question. Just because he was curious doesn’t mean anything. If he is jealous (a _huge_ if) it probably has a lot more to do with how much more comfortable Kent is in his own skin than Jack has ever been.

“Not saying I’d kick him out of bed, but I didn’t know he was gay until today. You don’t seem surprised that I know him, though.” Parse is talking through a mouthful of food, and Jack would bet he’s never learned how to make anything more sophisticated than scrambled eggs.

“I know you weren’t ever an Olympic prospect, but the lead members of select communities tend to intersect. It wasn’t a huge logical leap to make.”

Slurping echoes through the speaker, and Jack spares a moment to wonder if it’s the Irish coffee Parse is admittedly great at making, or if it’s the basic Assam with two spoons of honey that no one else knows he prefers.

“The hell?”

“Uh, sociology stuff.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Thought you majored in history.”

“I had to take a social science for my general requirements, and it couldn’t be for my major. So. And, well, you and Gus are two of the best in the world in similar sports; you’re the same age. You’ve got,” Jack hesitates, “other things in common.”

“Hold up there, college boy; you’re all that shit, too.”

Suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s aimlessly begun browsing Bitty’s twitter, he closes his browser and scuffs his own neck with a hand.

“I haven’t been around as long as you have.”

“Can you imagine if we’d gone to the Olympics from juniors? We’d have gotten so much ass, Zimms,” Parse says.

“I can’t tell if you’re telling me you’d have cheated on me with Gus Kenworthy or not.”

“You kidding? Threesome, dude.”

Kent drags the laughter out of him and it sounds warm in the silence of the hotel room. The faint echo of his own chuckling makes it less lonely.

“We’d have been on different teams. The logistics of it might have been tough.”

He snorts and Jack feels uncannily at ease.

“Nah, man, you know what they say about Olympic Village. The place is basically a giant orgy—no one would’ve blinked if your shapely Canadian ass found its way into my dorm.”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Jack says.

“Pfft. Maybe _you’ll_ never know.” He laughs.

“Kenny,” he tries to cushion his voice just a bit, so the sudden shift into the serious doesn’t seem as dramatic or ominous as it could, but the nickname aches deep. It’s a feeling Jack hasn’t associated with anyone but Bitty in a long time, and it’s scabbed over and dull, but it’s definitely there. “What did you want to talk about?”

“God, it’s stupid, but—“

Jack waits patiently, idly logging into Skype while there’s a cacophony on Parse’s end of the line. Chairs scraping, water running, dishes clattering with more force than sounds necessary or safe.

“It’s that headline, Zimms.”

“Yeah, that’s…” he starts an aimless sentence because he doesn’t really have words for the sickly swooping in his stomach. There’s no good way to talk about the way it had made him feel to read it; like just existing and taking up space was suddenly something he had to make an effort to keep up.

He knows Parse hasn’t hung up because the phone still crackles in the strained interim, but he’s terrified of what’ll happen when the tension snaps back.

“It’s some bullshit is what it is.”

Jack doesn’t answer other than to make a noncommittal grunt. The little light next to Bitty’s Skype handle lights up, and it absorbs him until Kent’s rage draws him back.

“Come on, though. He’s basically the best skier in the world—absolutely the best stunt skier—and he’s supposed to worry whether or not people who wish they were on his level will _accept_ him? Who the fuck cares?”

Grounding techniques always came naturally to Jack during rehab; there’s not much different in being mindful of his surroundings when he’s starting to panic than when he’s down three goals in the third period and his awareness dials down to nothing but the ice. The micro suede of the hotel couch sticks to the sweat on his calves where they’re tucked under his crossed thighs; the heat of his hard drive nearly burns through his training shorts.

Parse’s frustrated huff (he probably didn’t breathe throughout his tirade) in his ear; they’re all keeping him from retreating into his head.

“Seems like he cares.”

“Of course he does—all this heteronormative bullshit; you know they call skiers fags just for the hell of it? Like, damn, it’s not like they’re out there figure skating.”

“You almost had a point, but you let it go to shit in the end there.”

“Oh, right. I forgot your boy was a skater. Guess that doesn’t do a whole lot to shatter any stereotypes, does it?”

Jack snarls, “Are you trying to pick a fight, or what?”

“Nah, it’s all fucked up—that’s the whole point. What’s his name—Eric? I’ve seen him skate. He’s never gonna go much further than the NCAA with hockey, but he’s the fastest son of a bitch on ice I’ve ever seen. And then with Gus it’s just like—what the fuck?”

“I’m not following.”

It’s almost five thirty by now, and soon he’ll have to get on with the rest of his morning routine. He’s already pushing his luck, stretching himself further than he ever would outside his habit on a game day for Kent’s sake, but sooner rather than later he’s got to wash up and make his sandwich.

“I can’t believe that he’s an Olympic medalist, you know? Every other skier, boarder, even Shaun White should be lining up to shake his hand, but because he likes to kiss dudes the whole thing’s upside down.”

Parse has always had a way of taking his righteous indignation a step further than everyone around him. He’s managed to scream at a world that’s been unfair to anyone that it’s hurt him somehow, too. Jack knows that the root of so much of their trouble is Kent’s knack for getting his own heart torn up when it had no reason to be on the line in the first place.

The timbre of his voice is too tight, strained. There’s barely any of the sardonic hallmark of the Kent Parson brand he’s been cultivating since juniors, and he sounds a lot more like the teenager Jack loved once.

“You’re thinking about coming out?”

“Every day. Aren’t you?”

Jack’s hesitation speaks for itself. It’s impossible for him to sit on his hotel couch staring at a pixelated image of Bitty and pretend he doesn’t want to tell everyone he’s in love with a boy—whether that makes him gay or something else being a secondary concern.

But how many scandals is one person allowed before the rest of their life is completely overshadowed?

“I want to do it with you, if I do it at all.”

“That’s—“

“Unclench. I’m not after your virtue. I just meant I’d wanna have like a double coming out party. Press conference. Whatever. I can be flexible.”

“But I’m not planning…”

“I’m not giving you an ultimatum. Been thinking about this for a while, though. You know, the way I look at it one of the two of us is probably gonna be the first openly gay player in the NHL.”

It’s so foreign to Jack to think about a future where he’s out that he’s never even settled on a label. It always seemed inconsequential to decide whether he was gay or not when the only thing on his radar seemed to be Kent. Bitty was an anomaly; a welcome one, certainly, but two of anything don’t establish a pattern.

“You know, your breathing changes when you’re distracted.”

“Does it?”

Parse laughs.

“Yeah, man. I can always tell when you’re zoning out on me because usually you’re huffing right into the speaker like a damn bull. But when you’re distracted you sound basically the same way you do when you nap.”

“How’s that?”

“Real even, but not super deep. I shared a room with you for how long? I know it’s been a while, but I could probably recite your French wet dreams from memory after a few shots.”

“You could not. Your Québécois is shit.”

“Hey! I know the important stuff. ‘ _On va vous torcher à soir! 1’ _And, uh, ‘ _j’suis magané_. 2’ Used that one a fuckin’ lot. Along with, you know, ‘yo, _c’te gars là est beau. Yé gay, non? 3’ _Oh and let’s not forget ‘ _Grouille-toé! Suce ma graine! 4’”_

“You’ve been practicing,” Jack replies blankly, refusing to give into the hysterical laughter and the riotous warmth rushing under his skin.

Of course, Jack realizes it’s hard to be a professional hockey player and not pick up at least a little bit of the unofficial second language, but he’s still rattled by the casual way it rolls of Parse’s tongue. He’s not good, and no one’s ever going to mistake him for a native, but there’s a level of comfort that suggests familiarity.

“You’re not the only one with a type.”

“See if you can spot this one then, _crosseur 5. Va jouer dans le traffic,6_” he fires back; less like an argument and more like a chirp from a teammate. Like maybe he and Parse aren’t going to antagonize each other for the rest of the plot.

“Look, Zimms, my whole point here is that for better or worse the first gay player in the NHL is going to be a big deal, and I’m not doing another damn thing in my career without you next to me where you were supposed to be the whole time. And who knows—maybe it’d take some of the heat off both of us if we did it at the same time.”

“I don’t know if that’s something I want right now.”

The Skype ringtone that Bitty had spent two hours trying to customize for himself on Jack’s computer in Georgia before finally breaking down and calling Dex echoes in the tiny room.

“Dude, the fuck?”

“I’m getting a Skype call,” he says, distractedly typing into the IM bar that he’ll call Bitty back in just a minute.

“I didn’t think you even knew who Beyoncé was.”

Jack scoffs, “You haven’t met Bittle,” before he can think better of it.

_Sorry to call so early :( I needed to talk to someone and Shitty has a midterm today._

“Oh, so _Bittle_ had you at _Hello?_ ”

It would take an idiot not to realize that the song Bitty picked was hopelessly romantic, but of course Bitty would use a Beyoncé song as his personal ringtone, and he’s exactly naïve enough to pick Hello without considering what it was doing to Jack’s twitterpated heart.

“It’s just supposed to be a funny thing.”

“Right, ‘cause Telephone would’ve been too obvious.”

_Lardo’s in studio right now, but I’m sure she’d answer if I called. Are you busy?_

“Uh—“

“Call him. Thanks for listening to my shit. Talk again soon?”

For once, it’s an option. Jack could say no, if it were too much for him to handle. That, if anything, is the proof he needs that there’s some hope there after all.

_I’ll call in a second._

“Yeah. I’ll call you, Kenny.”

There’s no lag time between hanging up on his cell and ringing Bitty on his laptop, and it doesn’t even occur to Jack that he’s post workout in shitty pre-sunrise light and that he hasn’t even had a chance to shower.

Bitty needs to talk.

“Oh, Jack, am I bothering you?”

“What? No.”

“You’re just,” he gestures up and down and Jack supposes that his own embarrassment might have something to do with the bright pink of Bitty’s face, half hidden behind his free hand.

“I just wrapped up my morning run,” he says, bashful. He drops his chin, but he can’t entirely keep his eyes off the screen, so he peeks up toward the camera.

Bitty’s flustered, but he giggles. “You’re off your schedule—a whole half an hour later than you should be.”

“Memorized my routine?”

“You’re so busy, it’s the only way I can be sure to get a hold of you,” Bitty says, rolling his eyes. His jaw’s set in a hard square, and even though he’s smiling through the gentle ribbing, Jack can make out the redness of his eyes and nose that mean he’s been crying.

He’d known moving out of the Haus was going to be hard. He’d prepared himself emotionally; thought it would be just as hard as it had been leaving his peewee team and juniors before. Knowing how difficult it was going to be did exactly nothing to help him deal with the yawning cavity in his chest that used to feel whole when Bitty would lean into his side.

“Is everything alright?”

“For me personally everything is fine. It’s only—I know you couldn’t have heard yet, but this Olympic skier came out today, and I’m having a hard time... the reactions haven’t been so good.”

The only reaction Jack’s heard so far has been mixed, so it’s not as if he can disagree, but he wishes he could let Bitty know that there’s more than he can see out there.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t bother you with this,” Bitty hesitates, sniffling. “Shitty’s usually who I talk to about my, you know, alternate lifestyle choices.”

“You can talk to me about anything, Bitty.”

It hurts in a dull way that even after they’ve overcome their rough beginning and forged a genuine, strong friendship, Bitty thinks that this constitutes bothering. What does it say about Jack that Bitty doesn’t realize Jack would drop everything now and fly out to him if it would help?

“No, I know. You’re just so darn busy, and I know Harvard Law’s no walk in the park, but it’s… I’m sorry. Even the people who are trying to do the right thing are just terrible, Jack.”

Jack pulls himself upright in the couch and sits straight backed with his legs crossed, laptop balanced on his knee. Adjusting the screen, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s on the cover of ESPN, and honestly, that’s amazing! But the cover says ‘ _Is being the best in the world enough to be accepted?’_ and I sort of lost it.”

“That’s pretty rough.”

“And, it’s—I mean, I’m not even very _good_ , you know?”

“Bittle, that’s—“

It’s not really possible to work in an environment where emotions run as high as they do in hockey and not be able to handle tears. Bitty in particular is a crier, and Jack’s always known that. He’s never been good with words, but he’s always been the kind of person who can clap a teammate on the shoulder and let them know it’ll be alright.

Sometimes, especially when Bitty cries happy tears like he had for his last birthday, Jack is downright charmed by the way they make his huge eyes seem bigger, deeper. And they shine a little more than usual like Bitty’s usual effervescence can’t be contained.

Bitty’s crackling, hiccupping sob isn’t charming. It hurts worse than if it were his own, and watching Bitty collect himself so he can try to keep talking is some kind of psychological warfare.

“Why do we have to earn the right to be accepted?”

“I don’t know. We shouldn’t.”

“I know I’m not going to play after I graduate, and the boys on the team are all amazing, but there have to be other gay athletes, and not all of them can be the best, but even if they were—“

Jack registers his slip of the tongue only because he can see it dawning on Bitty. It had felt so natural to say, completely unselfconscious in a way he’s never been with anyone but Shitty, but now that he thinks of it, he _has_ just unintentionally outed himself.

The list of people who know is limited to Kent, Shitty, his parents, and now Bitty. There’s never been an elegant, perfectly calculated speech for him; Kent knew because it would’ve been pretty hard to ignore the way Jack crawled into his bed at night and kissed him. His parents had figured it out for themselves in the most embarrassing way possible the next morning.

Shitty was the only person he ever _told_ , and even then, it hadn’t been an outright declaration so much as it had been a hypothetical _so what if I had a friend who had only ever been attracted to one person, but that person was a guy. Would that make him gay?_

Every prior time had been just as unplanned and clumsy, but there’s nothing gnawing at Jack’s gut telling him he’s fucked it all up again. That’s new.

“Did you mean to say ‘we’ just then?” Bitty says.

“Yeah, I did.”

“You’re gay?”

Jack scrubs his face with the hand that isn’t steadying the screen and huffs. “Uh, I guess? I’m not straight, but I’ve only ever had feelings for two people before, so it’s... weird? Complicated.”

Bitty’s eyes go even wider and his mouth drops open a hair. Now that he’s had some formal training in photography, he’s come to appreciate the way Bitty frames himself when he’s recording. He’s been running his video blog for years, so he knows how to arrange his camera so it’s shooting from a higher, flattering angle probably without even thinking about it.

He’s dressed in one of his collared shirts, looking big-eyed and awestruck and Jack feels too big in his own skin and overexposed.

“Shitty thinks I’m demisexual. He says it means I don’t really form an attraction until I have a strong emotional bond with someone, and both of the guys I’ve—“

Talking about Bitty _to Bitty_ in the abstract when he’s already gone in so far seems so stupidly, hilariously cowardly that he does for broke.

“Besides Parse, there’s only ever been you. And you’re one of my best friends. If the shoe fits, eh?”

“It’s not really fair, you know,” Bitty begins in a high, tremulous voice.

Jack’s fists spasm and clench while he fights for breath. In the little picture in the lower corner he can see how far his pupils have dilated, and how rigid he’s gone, but Jack’s been through worse.

“Gus Kenworthy was the most attractive gay athlete I could name for a hot ten minutes, and then all of the sudden I find out my best friend, and the most beautiful man to ever strap on a pair of skates, likes boys. Likes me, even.” Bitty shakes his head in mock remorse. “Poor Gus.”

“Uh, what—“

Bitty breaks off into a fragile, tinkling laugh that borders on the hysterical. He pulls his lithe legs up into the chair and rests his chin on his knees, looking anywhere but at Jack. Only the incorrigible grin tugging at his stained cheeks keeps Jack from collapsing into mortified despair, and as fascinating as it is to watch Bitty’s shoulders lose their slump and see the light come back into his bottle brown eyes, Jack isn’t dealing well with the extended laugh track.

“Bless your overfull, post-war-obsessed, Doobie-Brothers-saturated heart, Jack Zimmermann, you’ve got an interesting sense of timing.”

He’s overwhelmed with the affection in Bitty’s voice, but he still manages to feign some level of composure and roll his eyes. He thinks his trembling fingers probably betray him, but Bitty’s still not making eye contact. Now, he’s watching his keyboard with the smallest of closed mouthed smiles.

“I thought it was relevant.”

“Sure; talking about not-straight professional athletes. Coming out to me and telling me you have a crush on me basically in the same breath.”

“Bitty, are you going to respond at all? About how _you_ feel?”

His eyes snap up to Jack’s and he looks so astonished that Jack backpedals faster than he can even think of the words.

“I know that’s not what you called to talk about, so—never mind. Let’s just forget I said anything. Are you okay?”

“Jack, sweetheart. I’ve snuck cookies into your carry-on bag. We’ve been Chowder’s parents when Farmer’s come to the Haus for lunch. I customized my ringtone on Skype so you would hear the words ‘You had me at hello,’ whenever I called. What part of all that was me being subtle?”

Bitty’s grin has always been too big for the rest of him—his emotions are too much to be held in such a small frame. Jack’s dazzled into silence and all he can think to stammer is, “You never said anything!” with lackluster accusation in his tone. It pales even in his own ears compared to the hope sneaking into his voice.

“I thought you were straight! You never said anything either, you know!”

He’s almost suspended in time now that he’s not anticipating a hammer blow. He even cracks a grin and manages to chirp in kind, “If we’re talking about subtlety, I remember taking you out to coffee about once a week for almost all of last semester. Not that I’m wanting for money, but I wasn’t exactly bankrolling Rans’s latte addiction, too.”

Bitty can’t seem to decide if he’s affronted or flattered. His eyelashes flutter and his lips quirk but he pulls his arms crossed against his chest.

“It wasn’t a very straight-hockey-bro arrangement we had there.”

“I offered to pay for myself every time,” he defends.

Jack can’t handle the distance separating them. He’s aching with so much fondness for Bitty that he thinks he might implode if he doesn’t touch him right now.

“And I never let you. Because I was trying to… flirt with you? Because, you know. I love you.”

“ _Jack Laurent Zimmermann,_ you did not just tell me you loved me _over Skype_.”

“Uh… that would be bad?”

Bitty’s nose had only just begun to pale, but it’s reddening now and his eyes are glossy all over again, and his fingers are twisted in front of his face when they’re not pressed flat against his mouth. Jack would love to ask him to stop obstructing his view, but he’s not sure if he has any leverage left at all in this conversation.

“It’s— _God, Jack!_ ”

“How can it be bad? I’ve heard you say it all the time!”

Bitty’s waterlogged chuckle isn’t comforting in the least.

“To my _mother_ or _Lardo_ or _Shitty,_ and never to anyone for the first time!”

“Fuck, I’m working without a playbook here. I meant what I said, but—“

“If you’re not about to say sorry for telling me you love me when I can’t kiss you senseless, you’ve got nothing else to apologize for,” he blurts over Jack.

“I’ll be back in Providence in a few days. I’ll make something work.”

“You’d better, ‘cause I’m not saying it back until I see you in person.”

“How would you feel about a weekend trip to Vancouver? My treat.” Jack’s only half kidding when he says it, biting his lip in anticipation of something he’ll never be able to imagine. Bitty’s a mess now, face wet and collar crumpled. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack catches his own face in the screen and sees the look he’s only ever seen before in pictures he’s taken with Bitty. He’ll have to remember that later, when there’s more time to talk about how oblivious Bitty’d been. He looks pitifully in love.

Neither of them has ever looked much better than they look right now; Jack would love to get a photo.

“Lord, no; I have class! I have class, and I have to go like this! I called you crying about Gus Kenworthy coming out, and then this happened!”

“Right. Uh, about coming out—“

The steady stream of treble giggles cuts off and Bitty takes a fortifying breath.

“I know if we did get together… I know it’s not a good time in your career for you to come out. It would be worth it to be with you.”

“That’s—“ Jack’s throat is too tight. His eyes burn a little at the reminder that he probably doesn’t deserve Bitty. He’s going to do his best to earn him, though. “You don’t know as much as you think you do.”

“If you drop one more bombshell on me today, I might not be able to handle it.”

He smirks at the way Bitty wags a finger at him.

“Well, I never did respond to your proposal…”

“Just because you know a law student doesn’t mean you can go around giving people heart attacks,” he says. His gaze twitches to where Jack knows his clock must be, and when his hands fly to smooth down his hair, Jack’s stomach drops.

His calves straining from having been folded for so long, Jack stretches and puts his laptop on the table in front of him and lets himself deflate a little, shoulders propped on his knees and head hanging.

“Is it pathetic that I already miss you?”

A hand crosses Bitty’s heart and he ignores his hair to look fondly at Jack.

“You need to stop saying things like that, or I’m gonna take you up on your offer to fly out west.”

“That’s not much of a deterrent, Bitty.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

They keep quiet for a few seconds, and Jack watches Bitty catch himself more than once getting worked up and having to calm himself again with closed eyes and serene breaths.

“I’m going to hang up now. Good luck tonight. Get yourself home in one piece; I have something important to tell you.”

“I love you,” Jack says, since, now that he’s already flouted tradition and common courtesy he has nothing to lose. Bitty slams his computer shut, but not before Jack hears him squeal something a few octaves too high to be spared if anyone else hears him.

Mechanically, even though his fingers feel like they’re wrapped up in wool mittens, he closes the lid of his laptop and slides his cell out of his pocket.

_Did you have a timeline in mind for the “double coming out party?”_

A hockey player during the season should have better things to do that sit on his phone and answer texts immediately as they come in, but somehow Parse doesn’t.

_ideally? asap. tired of hiding & ready to score. but i can wait until ur ready._

_I might be ready sooner than I thought._

_yeah? u finally nut up and get w/ ur figure skater?_

_He loves me._

_fuckin congrats u loser. talk to ur pr team today. maybe we can get a conference slot this week._

Toying with the phone, weighing it in his hands, Jack waits for the wave of anxiety to hit him in the chest. He waits for the tension in his temples telling him that he’s making a mistake, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he hears Bitty tell him to come home.

_It needs to be in Providence. I have plans._

_no hickeys above the collar bro. keep it wholesome for the cameras!_

_No promises._

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. "We're gonna kick your asses tonight!"  
> 2\. "I'm exhausted."  
> 3\. "Yo, that guy over there is cute. He's gay, right?"  
> 4\. "Hurry up! Suck my dick!"  
> 5\. "Wanker/fucker."  
> 6\. "Fuck off/Get lost!" (Literally: "Go play in traffic.")


End file.
